April 25, 2025, marks a decade since the devastating earthquake that struck Nepal in 2015. The 7.6 magnitude quake, followed by over 300 aftershocks and a powerful 6.8 tremor just weeks later, claimed nearly 9,000 lives and affected around 8 million people across Nepal and its neighbors. Entire communities were flattened, with homes, schools, and essential infrastructure reduced to rubble. It was a moment of reckoning – not just for Nepal, but for the wider region – as the disaster exposed deep structural weaknesses in how South and Southeast Asia prepare for, and respond to, such crises.

Yet amid the devastation, there were lessons – if we choose to learn them. In post-quake Nepal, for instance, over 26,000 homes were rebuilt through an owner-driven approach. Transitional shelters were designed to be earthquake-resilient and made from locally available materials like bamboo, mud, stone, and Corrugated Galvanized Iron (CGI) sheets. The construction process was broken down into simple, step-by-step guides so families could build their own homes, gaining skills and confidence along the way. Trained homeowners even went on to teach others, creating a ripple effect across communities. They also set up emergency schools, restored water access, and created shared community spaces – ensuring that the recovery was not just about rebuilding structures, but about restoring dignity, livelihoods, and agency.

What these efforts underscore is that when communities are placed at the heart of recovery, when they are trained, informed, and given ownership over the process, the results are not only more sustainable but also deeply empowering. This shift, from victims to active agents, is what sets apart meaningful recovery from mere reconstruction.

Ten years later, as Myanmar reels from a fresh earthquake, the sense of déjà vu is unsettling. Once again, we are confronted with familiar questions: Why are we still unprepared? Why are the most vulnerable always the last to receive help? And most importantly, what have we truly learned?

Myanmar lies within a vast seismic belt stretching across South and Southeast Asia – among the most earthquake-prone areas in the world. Countries in this region like Nepal, India, Indonesia, and the Philippines have all faced devastating quakes in recent decades, from Bhuj and Kashmir to Aceh and Kathmandu. Even over a century ago, the 1905 Kangra earthquake in Himachal Pradesh killed over 20,000 people, a grim reminder that vulnerability in this part of the world is nothing new. The seismic risks here don’t respect political borders, and the impacts are often collective, spilling across neighbouring nations and compounding already fragile systems.

The importance of preparedness is critical in these high-risk zones. Communities remain dangerously exposed, with little access to emergency aid, trained personnel, or resilient infrastructure. Even modest investment in disaster preparedness can result in faster response times and more coordinated community actions, the contrast becomes painfully clear.

What connects Nepal in 2015 and Myanmar in 2025 is not just tectonic activity, but the human-made vulnerability that compounds it. Across Asia, rapid urbanization has been largely mindless – driven by speed and scale, not safety. From coastal cities to Himalayan foothills, buildings are sprouting without proper seismic planning or enforcement of building codes. There’s an almost wilful amnesia around the idea that disasters are not just acts of nature, but outcomes shaped by policy, planning, and priorities. The physical structures we live in often reflect the fragility of the systems behind them.

Access to humanitarian aid remains another critical fault line. Traditional aid models are still too focused on the ‘last mile’, whereas the real challenge lies in reaching the ‘first mile’ – those remote villages, mountain hamlets, or conflict-affected zones that are hit hardest and helped last. The model needs to shift from top-down delivery to locally anchored preparedness. That means equipping communities with tools, knowledge, and networks long before disaster strikes.

Moreover, as we rebuild, we must rethink what rebuilding means. Too often, we see a rush to reconstruct in concrete, replacing the fallen with more of the same. But post-disaster recovery can be a turning point. It can be a chance to explore nature-based solutions – restoring wetlands, reviving traditional architectural forms, using local materials that flex rather than crack. These approaches are not only more ecologically sound but also resonate with local culture and climate.

Across the world, Japan stands as a model for what comprehensive preparedness can look like. But while we can learn from its meticulous drills and resilient infrastructure, Asia doesn’t need to replicate Japan. It needs to adapt the principles to its own context. Preparedness must be decentralised, culturally rooted, and community-led.

A decade on, Nepal’s story is still being written. And so is Myanmar’s. The question is – will we continue to rebuild blindly, or will we choose to rebuild wisely?